all roads lead to… wherever I may…

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

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Rome was not built in a day…
So why am I trying to finish it all today?

So is the way we are, eyes on the prize, the charge of momentum stirring in our skin, when we are set out on the path to what we want to reach we want to sprint, when walking (or at least a decent jog) is in order, but that gleaming trophy is all encompassing, enticing, enchanting, you can feel it manifesting in your hands, so you rush toward that horizon, and maybe stumble because you are not paying attention to the rubble in the road, because rarely is there a road of pure paved perfection, trust me, I have travelled many, and many a mirage of such perfection has seduced my seeking soul, I’m not one to proclaim new year’s resolutions, but mid year ones? OK, color me guilty, but just the same, the fever, the fervor burn you feel in those first hours and first days completing those tasks that propel your mind to dream of the end of the toil, as if a field of crops to chop is all laid out before you in a flash mob instant, but- the real field, just to bare the blazing sun, the heavy sweat, breaking hands from the engage-reset equation, and you want to get it all done – in an instant, but that is the trick, the false deity at wit, you must deny your own temptation, conflagration, intoxication, for the feeling of progress truly can be a trance, so you must learn to slow this dance, to a waltz, to a halt, or even a rest, a breath, a step, a realization that a yard is full of inches, a mile full of yards laid foot by shadow, you did not arrive at the where you are in one day’s travel, nor will you get to the over there you want in just a moon shot’s sojourn travel, plodding might seem downright like… well, plodding, and so it is, focus on the steps, a one, a two, a four, but not more, soon enough you will arrive at the prized station of the horizon, your destination, it may just take some time more, so ponder in that direction, write yourself a note of discretion, goals, with morsels and meals between, so that penultimate banquet will that be much better received, when, and you will, have built your Rome, your home, in a time that suits your will – and the satisfaction will.

notes… for those in the know, well, stop reading, for those not this is stream of consciousness, me riffing on a topic in one take… of course your thoughts and comments are always appreciated, as well as any tips on growing hot peppers in my climate… and when I mean hot I am talking habanero plus… and if anyone wants bamboo tips for northern climates… I have 6 types currently on my property – and I am expanding… I love the stuff, bamboo is an evergreen and there are many varieties that can survive here in north new jersey, lawns are boring… go exotic and more natural.

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness experiment going on four years now…)

this is, well was, the first truly day of spring, no, not the first nice day, but one that seems to announce the semi-permanent arrival, I’d love to paint you some ethereal picture of beautiful perfections, but that is not to be today turning into night, the air, is a soothing temperature though, a soft flow, however, in one direction I pick up the heavy scent of lawn chemicals like a teen with too much drakar doused on, I almost feel for the pests and grubs that must absorb that cruel gruel, I used to think a wonderous sparkling lawn was a wonderous thing, no more, I loathe such a faux carpet as more of a waste of resources these days, and a desert of imagination, not half as alluring as a mix of exotic and native plants that change like chameleons with the seasons, the pandemic must be slowing a bit, just from the sounds of the world, or the ones drowned now out, for there is a not so subtle undertow roar of cars in the distance, emanating from the local four lane road, oak tree road – as if that name imparts some gravitas of nature to course pavement and the sounds thereof, of course, there is the delightful, occasional throttle mash dash, a bugle call for ego small down our town’s little famous stretch, a couple of robins are chattering, not some euphony as you might think, the sound more like a cantankerous old married couple arguing, knowing there is no point in this dos-e-doe, knowing they have an audience’s ear for their nonsense, besides their own (and they are the only ones enjoying this show), robins are not songbirds I tell you, at least not those of this local herd, well… at least my various bamboo plants are blooming, in actuality shooting up new spikes left and right – which does not sound as nice or flowery, but a new generation looking to take a place in the some-day-ending parade, this past winter was very harsh on my crop, they look like a blonde wig that has been tossed about the mall parking lot floor for a few weeks or more, you can clearly see the glory that once was, like an outline, or a memory, but you surely would not pick it up to wear it; a commercial airliner is roaring out there somewhere, horizon-ish, hidden by the darkened clouds, not quite dark enough to see the beacons blinking indicating and exact location, a lone goose passes by, one honk, no formation to amaze by, this only confirms the underwhelming litany of this night, yet… even with all this, and that damn dog barking it’s head off some blocks away, the people walking by yapping loudly on their important calls, the last blasts of the mating calls of leaf-blowers in landscaper hands, somewhere, even in this, this imperfection, my eye is taken, to a small broken branch, barely more than a mere twig, I watch as it swings back and forth like some hypnotic pendulum, am I getting sleepy? no, just the back and forth and the back and forth, breathing in… and breathing out… and I am found, all of time, all of history, have brought me right here, the enemies of my revelation send various types of gas chariots down the street to distract me, but they only make me realize, and crack a wry smile, I found peace in place, the subtle trick, the wave, a fractured stick, sometimes… is all it takes.

notes… I wanted something dissonant… and probably something you never heard, I have eclectic tastes to be sure… but this evening felt like an immersion and birthing all in one…

pine soul…

pine soul…

Photo by Brandon Montrone on Pexels.com

(a spur of the moment / freeform post)

snow, -the weight, snow had broken the back of a tree, an old pine, not tall, but stout, the kind you could make a teapot song about, covered the view to the boring side of the neighbor’s house, taken for granted until now, now split in two from the sheer weight of snow more than a few weeks ago, so, even though the hour is late for such things, evening, the air is crisp, borderline cold, but just enough, enough to be a refreshing refreshment rather than an impediment to work, no breeze tonight, no breeze to chill the hairs on my arms to stand at arms, just the sharp clean air as an infusion and invitation to engage the evening, and then the pine, pine has such a distinct smell, how could I forget, as I clipped off the branches outward in, with large hand clippers, with almost bonsai-like detail, such a divine smell, one of those things a memory never forgets, a transportation to the first time in a forest, or touching the sap on cones thrown like footballs as a child, or cones laced with peanut butter and nuts strung up for a squirrels delight, pine, one of the only green statues to stand up to winter, even now as the season is changing, forsythia has shone golden light on the dulled lands, ramps have burst through like tufts of rebellious hair forts, here and there, daffodils round out the crew, even here, at night, trimming the branches down of this broken pine, soon will come the giving rains, and the explosion of life, the glory of spring, but now this sits a time, somewhere between dawn and full sunrise, ah, the smell of pine, as I trim and opine...

colander (if only)

colander (if only)

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(stream of consciousness / thought post)

as per my usual musings, I was driving to work this morning, listening to some tunes, perhaps bopping along and singing, so if you saw a guy on the GSP kind of looking foolish this morning, that would have been me, most likely, so anyway, the word ‘strainer’ materialized in my upper ether realm, the idea, so simple, yet so impossible (or?), if I could only pour myself (metaphorically or perhaps spiritually speaking) into a strainer, to let the best parts settle in and let the rest strain out to escape down into the drain of forgotten past lives… why on earth did I think that I had to choose, between one of those old school metal mesh ones, the plastic ones or one that is flat out strange– I don’t know, but my inner voice was telling me so, and to choose wisely it seems, so I did, and for whatever reason (I told myself to myself it was ‘old school’), I picked the metal mesh type for this imagined realization, so I crammed in all of me to let the process begin, this seemed like a simple mental exercise, one to exorcize my demons or just feelings I no longer cared to have taking up space in my inner abode, the cracks in my what seemed to be a perfect argument started to unfold in the folds of my brainium, just like pouring in cooked pasta, what if there was overflow? you never pick up the bits that fall in the sink, perhaps you toss them to the dog, but does that make them less than the strained survivors? what if that is a piece of parchment that has the cypher to unlock the code in the remaining strands? panicked now, I thought I had such a simple elegant solution, instead I am being titanic-ed by minutia, also, when you strain some things, inevitably some gets through, perceptible or not, something is lost in the process, more than you might want, or more that you might not never know, besides, everything, all your stuff kind of gets mashed down, sure the top looks perfect and all the extraneous liquid is gone – but – the bottom thoughts or stands are being pushed up against the wall sort of like the crush at the stage in a concert hall… damn, my metaphor has faltered and failed me now, I suppose there is no quick solution for unpacking myself…

perhaps I need to approach this like going through an old closet, looking at each thing, making a determination, and travelling forward or backward from there, this takes more time, but perhaps offers less orphans, cast offs, miscreants, regrets, all of these, rather than examine flipping about a trapeze, on the ground, grounded, methodical with a giant magnifying lens, to relish the details, the flaws, live them once again, and then – perhaps, then fold them back up neatly or dispense of them.

outside in the cold…

outside in the cold…

Photo by Tomu00e1u0161 Malu00edk on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness post)

I felt an uncomfortable sensation, like I was some where I did not belong, sure, the air is still and calm, and the sounds I hear are more like a glacier’s song, but here?? on a standard street in new jersey suburbia, I was awaiting the proverbial jumping cat to normalize the scene with banality, no luck there, sudden subtle whooshing water sounds, creaks and cracks, little pops, especially when the wind played cover for the under, fog, on a cold winter night? I can taste the moisture on my tongue somewhat, something is thawing, something is coming, that slight frozen fog suspended in air… or my eyes, I am not sure if I am in the dream state between or this is some parallel I have stepped into between worlds, I look to my neighbor’s house, all the lights are out, except those landscape domes buried in half a foot of snow, a semi circle, almost like a buried ufo, or proof of roswell is buried there, prints, prints across the white ‘scape, evidence, a trace, things have been skulking about but the melt makes a succinct inspection impossible, a cat, a dog, a fox, who knows, a person lost in the storm, probably not on that score, but these are written stories on the temporary ice canvas laid out, soon to become a book and flow into a stream, into the ocean, and off into the vast consciousness of the world continued and forgotten, all twined together like our daily lives, just these frozen at this one time, inextricably linked by binds of time and circumstance, and I can not decipher them before this alexandria burns into the ground, such is the way of the world, but I do not have to like it, and again, I hear more strange sounds, the closer I walk towards the more silence raises up to block my ears, the wind, a loki, shakes the tree above me raining down perfect droplet bombs of sub chill local tree rain, not from a cloud, at least not now, they hit me to distract from the creeping doom I imagine is out there… or I know is out there, but not tonight, not here, I return to the warmth of my hearth and home, to the domain of my screen, and these words, a survivor as long as fate may grant me, able to write my words at night so faintly, I hope my echo can carry in this chasm and catch the wind on the other side.

notes… as usual, all thoughts and comments are appreciated. good, bad, indifferent, did you read this? I wonder. did you experience?

window musings (part 2)…

window musings (part 2)…

“for if this is all I have
’tis more than some will ever know”

a window into the world
defined by frames
defined by shape
much like our own

words try to clarify a picture
quantify a fraction
symbols drawn together
and agreed upon among others
language –
like an ancient tree
the high branches so far removed from root
reaching up
as if to escape
or grasp the stars – themselves
for we know to well
not bound to this earth
for we know not long – enough
as the spirit thrives to live on

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

a reflection on the perfection of eleven… (stream of)

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outside the norm, or the deca-box, a beginning step over such, just higher than the range of given usual merit, a singular number, a backwards forwards road, twins, towers bold by bold, the power of one number can equal two, so unassuming in elegance, not the first or last of the calendar, nor a remarkable time of any days to remember, outside of america, that is, the essence of being outside, the one, or twin ones, in the major arcana ruled by the sun, a lion’s pride, an ego’s ride, the enchantress begs the gifts, and quells the lion’s maw with her own paw, allowing for the spring of heaven to emerge and flow forth, an elven spring, even a broken clock chimes the gateway twice a day – so what call’s us to notice, and delve into eleven and the eleven realms… who knows?

my photo… my view from my desk… on a good day

file this under things you write as they hit you, sitting in my office (photo) peering through the blinds, the soft parade of bright red underbellies like child drawn crayon whales, of clouds passing just over the house across the street, providing a stark contrast to the black-barren limbs of a tree, to the left of me, from here I can not see the asphalt, or debris strewn about on the street, not even the empty bus stop or garbage drop, no my mind is free for a moment to flee to meander within the clouds slowly so slowly sliding south, darker now, darker still, the red has faded to a purple gray, in this space, I could dream to be as free from the every day, one day, floating in the resonance of silence, or so I imagine this to be.

Notes… I am playing with numbers here, look up 11, I am not going to link to everything this time out that I was riffing on, just go to your fave search engine and search “meaning of 11” you might be surprised, or not, or maybe learn a thing or 12….

the banquet… {{B}}

the banquet… {{B}}

Photo by Lee Hnetinka on Pexels.com

how subtly we move down the long table, a feast with our family, different times of the year feel the same in here, time is somewhere peering in with jealous eyes. knowing at some point we will venture outside again, once small children (so I recall) are now here at the main table as adults grown up, their kids at the small one or running around, the parade of cousins, aunts, uncles and those married in moves on, the table has swelled all these years, I always knew, but never saw the subtraction coming as I do now, this soon, expected at some point, sure, but never on my side, in my direct row of chairs, a reckoning, for this is the way life is, I suppose we all hold onto untouchable belief, even in the sheer face of the inevitability, the reality, maybe we are fools but I would rather side on the side of belief against all and embrace that fool of myself, for what else can we do, pass the potatoes down and share a drink or two, a sliding moment of smiles, a flash of stories brought out like seasonal accouterments, as the actuality of the tales seem, and are, further off in the distance, for perhaps this is the time of my reckoning, at least as I slide chairs, as the elders inevitably become phantoms, one by one, some by some, so, all the more – stop and enjoy the spectacle, the pageant, the miracle, the banquet of life while the fruit is ripe, the buffet is vast and the glasses full, a moment to take in, as I approach the land of reckoning, not for myself, just yet, but I see, and feel, the coming of the sunset for the generation I am replacing in line next as I move toward the end of the table, may I carry such yoke with dignity and humanity – and love.

yes, the winter *”*

yes, the winter *”*

Photo by Hui Huang on Pexels.com

from minute to minute, I suppose, I can not track my mind to the finish line, I do enjoy the comfort of snuggling burying into bed, fetal form, to gather warmth, or throw on that old cape may sweatshirt, the elastics at the sleeves have seen better days flapping loose like old flagpole lines @ the shore, but of course this sweatshirt comes equipped with a joey pouch for my hands, I walk out to take out the trash to the assigned bins, ‘hello, mr. winter
for I feel his breath on any and all exposed flesh, after last night’s raging gale, there is really little doubt, perhaps a spring like day might mount here or there, but not for long, the trees are close to bare, the town has come and picked up all the leaves left out, the wind meets little resistance now, across this land, I pause, the late afternoon sun now matches what colors there are left around, a snapshot, it will seem like hours and all will be gone, barren, the steady march into soft sleep, hunker down, the days grow short as the sun is just that more out of reach, other sources of warmth become the key, hunker down, soon, the white age of morning captures the dew, clothing and rituals will change, a trade for hot soup from lemonade, the shore becomes still, silent, empty, how things seem so much more empty when the crowds are gone, I wonder what the gulls think, they vote with their feet and beaks, they have moved into the suburbs and the towns, I wonder if those strip mall birds think lowly of their beachbound herds, trading a parking lot for the roar of the sea, I suppose survival is the more preferred aesthetic, but what do I know of birds, only what I observe, tonight in tongues comes a frost, a blanket, an incantation, a charm of making, that white beard that conceals the color green until what is left of the sun warms just enough, you can never plug all the holes of inevitable, surely, all comes falling down if you try to stem the tide by self as a boy, better to gradually be seduced than to outright drown, I dream of the beach in winter, so here my dream walks.

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

thoughts… from the porch. ” ” ” “

Photo by Raychel Sanner on Pexels.com

the howling winds
yes, the cliché, like a freight train, but I must say, whoever coined that phrase, was quite correct, I saw the line coming in on radar, somewhere over Dingman’s Ferry just an hour ago, now, as predicted quite sitting, over my homestead, I sat out for a bit, enjoying the sheer raw power wind, found a spot not quite so wet to take it all in, seeing my newly planted bamboo bent and flailing about surely gave me pause, but things and trees have to learn after-all, I did however batten down whatever hatches I could, the reports of 60 miles per hour received and understood – and felt, what few leaves survived the autumn culling will surely not survive the night, and thirties temp in the forecast later certainly have snuffed out any oxygen left in hopeful lungs of summer, or spring, or whenever this began, the holidays and days that never were, the stalking virus seemingly an eraser of time (where did easter, 4th of july or halloween go?), things changed in a blink, kind of standardized but never slowed down, for children I suppose it might be worse, a stolen summer, a time in life never to be realized, how important things like 9th grade or 8th grade seemed, a prom missed, and there were, no second chances there, children have such strict avenues until they are out in the world embarking in their own canoes down that river… the roaring continues, but now rain has come to play, no place safe, well, no place dry to stay, save indoors, so I retreat, still, I open my window just enough, to invite a piece of the tempest thus, the TV is out, all the better, I have power, tough life I have no doubt, I can only imagine the spectacle such a whip coming through caused in a frontier house of old, wind finding every little crevice and racing through infiltrating, gas lit lamps flickering, threatening to go out and bring the dark veil, huddled in a patchwork waiting for the wind to die down, I romanticize this scene, only because secretly I know my modern convenience provides me the protection to watch the beast thrash about like I am watching some show, the sound though, the sound, my eyes deceive me as I watch a car drive down the street with no sound, I am sure the sound is in there, somewhere, in the blender, but damn if I can make it out, all there is, is nature’s voice, a roar, a throaty steady bellow racing through the leaves fallen at varying pace, stalks touching toes, why does this enthrall me so? maybe I am jealous, I can not conjure such magnificence, I only get to be a witness, but such things are better than not being here at all.